


Kingfisher Blues

by ProseApothecary



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst With A Happyish Ending, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, M/M, OCD, Semi Fix-It, Stanley Uris Takes a Bath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28913010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProseApothecary/pseuds/ProseApothecary
Summary: Eddie giggled, and Richie didn’t know who to look at anymore. He loved all the Losers, but Eddie and Stan were the only ones for whom it came with an anxious fervour.Eddie, and the fear that he knew just how much Richie loved him. Stanley, and the fear that he didn’t.
Relationships: But if you want to read it as Stozier/Streddie I'm not gonna stop you, Eddie Kaspbrak & Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris
Comments: 13
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

_Guess Stanley Could Not Cut It_ splays across the table.

Richie sits, dread fluttering in his ribs, and remembers. He remembers, two weeks after that fucking clown, when they were all going back to pretending things were normal. Eddie and Richie met Stan at his house, headed off to the quarry, and Stan locked the door after them, testing the knob 6 times. Quickly, like if he did it fast enough, they wouldn’t notice. _Twisttwisttwisttwisttwisttwist._

Richie was about to mention it. Not that he had enough understanding of what was happening to say anything remotely helpful beyond _It’s not healthy to twist your knob like that, Staniel._

But then a high-pitched voice echoed out, “Is that a _cockroach?"_ , and everything was swept up in a wave of Eddie.

The night turns to chaos, the fortune cookies turn feral, and Richie’s eyes turn to Eddie.

_The more things change._

He’s mid-flee when he remembers the bar mitzvah. Remembers he did show up, sometimes.

Even just to birdwatch with Stanley. Sitting by the pond, waiting for Tufted Ducks to go by. Stan managed to get all the Losers to come along when he packed babka for each of them.

He pulled six glad-wrapped portions from his tidy backpack, laid them out in front of each of the Losers.

“What about yours?” Richie asked.

Stan shrugged, and said, “6 is a good number. Even.” as if that was an explanation.

Richie broke off half of his and handed it over. It looked, for a second, like Stan wouldn’t take it. But he’d given Richie a half-smile, and took a tentative bite.

They saw a Tufted Duck on the water that day, and Stan overflowed with enough joy for the 7 of them, happier than Richie had seen him in…ever, maybe.

Stan looked around for someone to share in the moment, so Richie jumped in with the British Guy. “My God. It seems to be…an incredible flying machine?”

“It’s not flying, dipshit,” Stan said, smiling all the while, chocolate from the babka staining his chin.

Eddie giggled, and Richie didn’t know who to look at anymore. He loved all the Losers, but Eddie and Stan were the only ones for whom it came with an anxious fervour.

Eddie, and the fear that he knew just how much Richie loved him. Stanley, and the fear that he didn’t.

He’d tried to get that smile back. He’d heard Stanley talking about bowerbirds, so he started swiping bottlecaps, and pen lids and everything he could get his hands on, making a little blue display in the scrub.

Him, Stan and Eddie had gone birdwatching, and Richie not-so-subtly led them to the display.

Stan diligently started cleaning all of it up. He picked up 6 items and stuffed them into his bag, then handed the other two to Richie. “Can you carry these?”

“Staniel,” Richie said, taking them from him. “Um. Don’t you think that might be a bowerbird nest?”

“…Bowerbirds don’t live here, Richie.” Stan said. “It’s probably just some asshole littering.”

Eddie snorted at Richie in a deeply suspicious way, because he was a _complete traitor_ , and Stan just gave them a Look before walking onwards to a grassy patch.

“Good job, dipshit,” Eddie whispered in his ear, going up on his tiptoes to reach, and _God_ , Richie hated that _that_ made him go hot and cold.

They sat in the sun, Stan getting out his binoculars while Richie pulled out a pile of his rarest comics for him and Eddie to read.

“You know,” Stanley said, because he was _also a complete traitor_. “Bowerbirds aren’t the only species that collect things to impress a potential mate.”

“Is this about the Playgirls I deliver to Eddie’s mother?” Richie asked.

Eddie elbowed him swiftly in the stomach, without looking at him, and quickly changed the topic to Superman.

Maybe Richie can show up one more time.


	2. Chapter 2

_You wouldn’t want anyone to pick truth_ , the clown warbles, and Richie thinks about Stan.

Stan picked truth every time. Every time but one.

“Stan,” Richie said, watching him rule a margin, over and over again. “Not to quote Eddie’s mother, but I think it’s thick enough.”

Stan ignored him, adding a sixth stroke.

“…Why do you do that?”

“Some of us like things to be neat.”

“It’s not just that, though, is it?”

Stan met his gaze. “…Something tried to kill us, Richie. And we don’t know what it is, or where it came from, or where it went. All we know is that it kills children. Could kill us. Don’t you want things to make sense again? Don’t you want to get back a little bit of control?”

“…And checking the door six times does that?”

“As much as-as much as using a bullshit inhaler, or circling points on a map, or-or _mixing our fucking blood_. We all have rituals.”

Richie paused. “Not me.”

“You fix your glasses,” Stan said, “every time you talk to-”

“Ok,” Richie said, quickly. “But that doesn’t have anything to do with the clown.”

“…Fine,” Stan said. “How are you coping, then?”

“Just. Trying to forget about all of it. Moving on.”

“Strategic repression. Shocker.”

Richie felt his fingertips go numb with cold. “What does that mean?”

Stanley looked at his hands. “Nothing. Sorry.”

“No,” Richie retorted, throat tightening, “No, you’re always fucking _implying_. Just say what you mean, Stanley.”

“Ok,” said Stanley, quietly. Richie watched his finger tap against his knee.

 _Tap tap._ “I think you like Eddie. Maybe love him.” _Tap tap_. “And I wish you’d tell someone about it before it drives you crazy.” _Tap tap._ “Cause they might better react than you think.”

Richie let out a slightly manic laugh. “Fuck. Does that tapping shit actually work?”

Stan smiled at him. “Not for you. You don’t need to be any noisier.”

Physical affection was always Richie’s wheelhouse, but Stan shrugged awkwardly and said, “Do you um…Do you want a hug?”

“What?” Richie said, determined to turn this back into a joke. “No kiss?”

But Stan, who had never once taken his bullshit, assessed Richie like he was a puzzle piece. Took his cheek in his hand, shifting his face firmly but gently. Moved slowly, so Richie could back off, if he wanted, and Richie didn’t know if that was what he was supposed to do, but he stayed, let Stan’s soft lips press against his cracked ones in a brief, chaste kiss.

When Richie opened his eyes, he was met with a smile that says _Losers don’t scare easy._

“Now you won’t be totally incompetent,” Stan said. “When you try it on Eddie.”

“Oh yeah-” Richie said, talking to quiet the voice in his head.

( _A boy kissed me. He wasn’t mad and he wasn’t scared and he didn’t run)._

“- _when_ I try it on Eddie. You know, for a grumpy motherfucker, you’re very optimistic.”

“Have to be. If I tasted your cigarette breath for nothing, I _will_ lose the will to live, so-”

Richie did hug him then, wrapping his arms around his bony frame.

“Rich,” Stanley said, muffled through his shirt. “When you kiss Eddie, please brush your teeth. Or just stop smoking altogether.”

“Got it,” said Richie. “Don’t change a thing. Just be myself.”

“Oh my God,” Stanley said. “I give up.” But Richie felt him lift his arms to hug back.

Eddie’s bleeding out on the jagged floor and Richie remembers Stan, red welts circling his face. Richie remembers _You abandoned me_. Richie thinks _You failed again._

He doesn’t know why Eddie doesn’t blame him. Eddie should blame him. Richie told him to be brave, hiding the whole damn time.


	3. Chapter 3

Eddie’s healing.

Richie’s keeping hope within him, like carrying a candle through a rainstorm.

 _You abandoned me_ , Richie remembers. He looks at himself now, as wrapped up in Eddie’s attention as he ever was, and wonders if it’s his fault. Wonders if he should’ve glanced from charcoal eyes to olive ones more often, wonders if that would’ve changed anything.

But he thinks of birdwatching and Torah readings and quiet evenings where Stan patiently helped him with his maths homework. Stan knew they loved him. Richie has to believe that, or he’s going to drive himself quietly insane.

He sneaks Eddie out of the hospital at night.

He likes to look at the stars. Richie likes to look at him.

He watches the night sky blend with brown eyes, and thinks, _Stan wouldn’t deny me this_. He’d roll his eyes and shove Richie into the nearest wall. But he’d let him have this.

A couple strands of hair dip over Eddie’s forehead in the breeze. He looks very dramatic. Richie looks like a balloon man at a car dealership. The air feels a little fresher than it ever did before, but maybe it’s a gazebo.

“Eds.” Richie says. “I have a lot of shit to catch you up on.”

They’re making their way to the kissing bridge, because Richie let slip about the initials, and Eddie decides he has A Right to See Them.

Eddie gets out of the car, kneels by the bridge. Surveys the etching for a good 2 minutes. Then stands up, turns to Richie, and says, definitively, “Your handwriting was shit.”

Richie grins at him.

“You know, it’s partially Stan’s fault that I wrote _anything_ , so we should commemorate him here. Eddie, catch a goose. We can set it free.”

“You’re thinking of doves.” says Eddie.

“It’s Derry,” Richie says. “Doves only come here to die.”

But he has an idea. He kneels by his etching and pulls out a penknife. The water of the quarry turns into bloodied bathwater, just for an instant, until Richie breathes out.

He etches out a tally into the splintered wood.

 _1 2 3 4 5 6 and 7._ He presses down hard on the 7th stroke. Makes sure it sticks around.

“I hope you’re peaceful.” he says. “Sleeping with the kingfishers.”

Eddie groans, and Richie turns his head to beam at him “What? He would’ve loved that joke.”

“He would’ve fucking hated that joke,” Eddie says. “He hated all your jokes.”

“Right,” Richie says with a wink. “The same way you hate all my jokes.”

“Correct,” Eddie says, tonelessly, but when Richie stands up, he takes his hand, and locks their fingers together, and Richie feels the sugar-water rush he’s not used to yet.

The two of them watch the water lap, failing to reach the bridge.

It can’t wash away everybody.


End file.
